


To Err Is Human, To Feel Is Life

by kunstaeilation



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunstaeilation/pseuds/kunstaeilation
Summary: From before sky and earth were one,From the time when there was naught but none,There stood mighty gentle Halcyon.
Relationships: Qian Kun/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Time for a new long fic! Yay! I'll be frank, I'll be slow in updating this cause I'm just a slow writer and I like to go through a chapter several times before I'm satisfied. I'm also not sure where this story is going to go, but I promise I'll make it worth reading!
> 
> Happy reading guys!
> 
> P.S. Thanks to Tokki and Bee for always listening to me complain and bounce ideas off of them. Love you guys <3

“Tell me a story, grandfather.”

Old Fisherman turns and looks at his grandson, his weary face haggard and gaunt as he considers the request. He takes his time answering the boy, the creak of the wooden boat filling the silence with its halting hollow groan. One by one, Old Fisherman goes about the small vessel reeling in the lines, making sure the traps haven’t drifted off, checking that the nets still held. The boat rocks with the gentle lapping of waves as he finally satisfies himself with the last line and sits down, fine ivory hair glinting in the sunlight. “Which one?” he quietly asks.

“The one you never tell me. The one of Halcyon.”

“Ah. That.” He had supposed as much. It’s a tale he’s only told the child once before, but it’s one he begs to hear over and over again. Old Fisherman looks out across the sea, failing eyes barely making out the horizon. He sees not the line between the heavens and the ocean nor the creeping shadow rolling forth. Instead, he sees him. _Him_ . A face so near and dear to his heart. A face sweet and beautiful, fierce and terrifying. It’s here right now. _He’s_ here right now, but a wave sends the boat lurching and the apparition disappears from his mind. 

With a sigh, Old Fisherman buries his head in his hands but he does not cry. There’s been enough of that. His tears are dried and gone, buried deep inside amongst the starry nights and quiet laughter. It’s only in his sleep that they spill forth, silvery trails that roll down his cheeks as his mind betrays him when he’s weakest. But when he’s awake, he’s in control. When he’s awake, he can watch the slow creeping of time crawl by: the rising and setting of the sun, the constellations making their long journey across the sky. Day by day, they pass him by. Day by day, he waits but it’s tiring. So very tiring.

The boat sways with the impatient squirming of his grandson and Old Fisherman finally looks up to entertain him, but there’s no sound from between his lips. Not a squeak. He clears his throat and tries again, but his breath catches trapped and locked within. The words are there like red-hot coals on his tongue searing and agonizing, filling his lungs with soot and smoke with every breath he takes until he’s choking and sputtering, screaming and writhing but still he cannot talk. Still, he cannot speak. He’s not allowed. His words have been spirited away, silenced and sealed. Repentance. Punishment. For _him._

Lightning zips across the sky, light and quick on her feet as she flits across and disappears with a giggle and a titter. Old Fisherman looks up at the darkening sky and frowns. The shadow slithers ever closer riding on a mighty northern gale, its form taking shape as it oozes and billows into an ashen grey mass of clouds.

“One more fish,” he tells the heavens. “One more fish and then we will go home.”

Old Fisherman waits a moment and only hears silence before Great Thunder answers with a ferocious roar chasing Sweet Lightning as she dances away. A drop of water falls on Old Fisherman’s head, cool as the morning spring breeze and Old Fisherman hangs his head, letting out a heavy sigh.

“A tale for next time, my _elephakos_. The Gods are not happy today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and tell me what you think! Since I'm a slow writer, twitter is honestly the best way to know when a chapter is posted ●▽●
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kunstaeilation)   
>  [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/kunstaeilation)
> 
> [Playlist for the fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4jFttbGiHWTRG4JN85zgWi) (I'll be updating it as I go along)


	2. The Beginning to an End

A crow flitters and caws, its feathers a slick obsidian stone stark against the sparkling azure waters of the Astretan Sea. Xiaojun watches as it lands on the side of the boat in a flutter of wings, it’s claws a quiet tip tap as it hops along the hull. The bird stares back, beady eyes cautious and curious, tiny head jerking with every movement he makes.

“A crow,” the fisherman he went out to sea with rumbles from behind. “It must be looking for food. Do not feed it.”

Xiaojun pulls his hand back from his leather sack and frowns at him. “Why not?” he questions. “What could be so bad about feeding a creature of the heavens?” 

“‘Tis unnatural for them. You will teach it to rely on humans and not fend for itself.”

He considers the words for a moment mulling over their meaning before reaching back in and digging around. “You aren’t wrong,” his fingers brush across a stale crust. “Yet I believe everybody could use a bit of kindness—animals included. Here,” he holds the slice out between his hands. “Come.”

The crow inspects the bread from afar and caws, its hoarse screech unbefitting amongst the cries of seagulls high above. It flaps its wings twice taking a step forward before dashing forth and snatching the morsel from Xiaojun before he can split it. With a cry of surprise, he stumbles backwards as the bird disappears to the left in an ebony blur of feathers.

“An inauspicious sign,” the fisherman clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You are too soft, Xiaojun.”

“Perhaps,” he watches as the bird lands on a nearby rocky outcrop, its greedy head pecking and tearing at the bread. “Perhaps not. Only the gods can determine that.” 

A rustling sound comes from behind and Xiaojun looks back to see two figs and a chunk of cheese in the fisherman’s hand. “Here,” he says. “Have this. Take the eel as well. Perhaps this bit of kindness will do some mercy.”

With a quiet chuckle, Xiaojun accepts the gift and tucks it into his bag before digging his heels into the damp sand. “Even without the mercy of the gods,” he begins hauling the boat to shore, “I will have a friend. The crow will always remember a good deed and a helping hand.”

A sigh is the only response he gets before they fall into silence busy heaving the boat onto land, pulling out the traps and nets, untangling the knotted lines. With skilled hands, they count the fish sorting them by size and shape without much thought: smaller anchovies and sardines in one basket, rarer cuttlefish and tuna in another. Fellow fishermen nod and smile as they pass by carrying their own boats and bountiful baskets. Each greeting is wearier than the last, a simple pleasantry above the quiet murmurs of the Astretan Sea. Up above are hungry seagulls circling and waiting for the moment a foolish fisherman turns his back so they may swoop in and steal a fish. The crow no longer sits on the outcrop, the bits of crumbs and fighting seagulls the only evidence of its thievery. 

Xiaojun parts ways with the fisherman with his half of their harvest, carefully navigating the rocky shore as he balances the baskets. The sun is still low in the sky languid in its journey this early morning yet its might is as indomitable as ever. It’s the master of the heavens and its scorching rays the whip it beats upon his back. A bead of sweat slides down the side of his face and drips onto the ground. Xiaojun stares at it, his mind a muddled mess. Already, he wants nothing more than to head home and nap beneath the shade of the great moria tree but he can't go home—not yet. He has fish he must sell, fish that will spoil within the day in this heat.

Instead, he grits his teeth and begins the arduous journey towards the Halcea. The agora there is a journey he doesn’t enjoy; the walk from the sea to Mount Stagara alone is long enough and the cumbersome baskets of fish make it a more than daunting task, but each trek had always been more than rewarding. The cool mountain air will be a welcomed reprieve too, drawing more customers from below than usual. Many people will be there to buy his fish.

Another bead of sweat slides down and Xiaojun takes a break and sits in the shade of a hovel dabbing his face with a square of rough linen. All around him are men, women, and children alike hiding from the glorious brilliance of the sun, their faces shiny and reddened. Only the most energetic of children continue to screech and holler, their sun-kissed skin and charcoal hair a whirling blur as they ignore the calls of worried mothers. Beside him, a woman pulls out a couple of figs for her children and Xiaojun’s stomach grumbles reminding him of his own hunger.

He opens his sack taking out the bit of cheese and nibbles at it, grateful for the earlier charity. Someone passes him a bucket of water taken from a nearby fountain and Xiaojun swallows a couple mouthfuls of the cool, sweet spring, relishing the relief it brings his parched lips and the added satiety it provides. Soon, the cheese is gone and he lingers for a moment longer before gathering the wicker baskets, this time walking without pause until he reaches the acropolis. 

By the time he approaches the mountain, the sun is nearing its zenith but the walk is more bearable now. The great firs and pines shade the path below with their boughs stretched out high above while a gentle mountain breeze rustles through. Bodies crowd at Xiaojun from all around making the same journey as he. They carry empty baskets and push wooden carts full of goods. Some even lead mules carrying bursting sacks full of wheat and barley, their hooves a rhythmic clip clop along the cobbled path. A racket of noises soon reaches his ears and the path opens up to a wide clearing. 

As predicted, the agora is more crowded than usual full of hardy men and women escaping the oppressive heat. They crowd around the marketplace and flood the stoa, bodies spilling out and shoving back in beneath the covered colonnade in an attempt to further hide from the sun. One glance at the building and Xiaojun knows that there’s no room for him there, so he heads straight for the market instead. Various scents and sights greet him as he makes his way to the fishmongers: fragrant sweets and pastries dripping in honey, brightly colored bolts of linen and silk, piles of leafy greens beside sacks of beige. Eventually, he reaches the fishmongers and lucks out on a small corner of his own beneath a tent and squeezes between the others offering a polite greeting to the familiar sun-worn faces.

One by one, he carefully inspects each fish turning them in his hands and checking its freshness while noting when the scales best catches the sun’s rays. Pleased that there isn’t much to dispose of yet, he arranges the fish and begins to wait. Not a single person glances his way at first—he’s too quiet and there’s too many other competitors vying for any attention they can get, yet where Xiaojun lacks he more than makes up for in patience and persistence. His haul is good today with four red mullets and two tunas. Even the eel that the fisherman had kindly given him. It’s a rare catch, the eel is. Clever and slippery, they notoriously escape even the most skilled spears and clever traps, but this one had been unlucky this early morning falling for a simple bait of squirming anchovy. 

The voices around him continue to clamor and shout, each person bartering and negotiating sometimes even arguing instead. Xiaojun watches them with mild amusement before turning his attention upwards. From where he is, he has a clear view of the splendid Temple of Halcyon with its dazzling marble pillars. It sits at the very top of Mount Stagara, the highest peak amongst all the lands of Delus and a befitting place for the seat of The Placid to look down upon the people. From up there, the entirety of Astretos can be seen: pinpricks of terracotta rooftops, tiny snaking paths of the polis, the stretching of the Astretan Sea wide and endless. It’s a breathtaking view Xiaojun has witnessed on multiple occasions during festivals and his climbs to the temple. Then, there was the neighboring Thyrinda and Mathais with their clusters of buildings—even the far poleis of Calyptos and Nicila if the day was particularly clear. Be it city or sea, rain or snow, sweet Halcyon’s eye reaches far and wide. 

A gust of wind blasts through the agora, its howl cutting through the coarse linen tunic and knocking items over shocking Xiaojun from his blank reverie. Fellow Astretans cry out, complaints hot on their lips at the unwelcomed surprise as they look to the sky and pick up the fallen goods. Whispers of an oncoming storm reaches his ears but the heavens above are as clear as ever, a wonderful agate spanning on and on with only the occasional cloud and passing bird marring its surface. It’s also just as temperate as it was before, the mountain air cool and crisp against the persistent beating of the sun. 

Still, people begin to pack up their wares here and there. Some of them are done selling for the day while others fear the possibility of god’s wrath. Not Xiaojun. Something beckons him to stay. Perhaps it’s the lonely eel that still sits in the basket, glistening and luscious waiting for a generous coin purse. Perhaps it’s the crow and the fisherman’s warning of bad luck to come. Perhaps it’s sheer stubbornness and the desire to defy the will of fate, to show that no one rules his life but himself. 

Or perhaps, perhaps he had simply been chosen, commanded to stay by that which watches over him. Maybe that’s why. Maybe that was why.

Xiaojun stays where he is and watches as merchants and people begin to trickle back down the mountain path to their homes. _Just the eel_ , he tries to catch the eye of a passerby. Anything left over he could save and eat by himself, but the eel is special and to eat such a thing by himself is far too lavish of a waste. _Maybe I can ask Lucas to come for dinner_ , he frowns as another customer glances at it, disinterested. _He could bring his friends for a small feast. Perhaps that would work._ But the idea is more than just unsatisfying. The eel is worth enough drachmas to eat well for a week—two if he were careful with his coin, so he waits.

The sky soon grows dark and Xiaojun still doesn’t budge. The agora is much emptier now and the trail back down the polis crowded and full. Only those who are as determined as he remain behind, but the number shrinks as the minutes slip by. _The rest of the sardines then_ , he tries to wave a customer down. _Just those. Then I’ll_ \- 

A whip of lightning cracks across the sky startling Xiaojun for the third time that day as ferocious thunder growls back. Drops of rain spill forth a second later, each droplet angrily pelting those that dare remain below soaking them with every engorged bead. All around him, people yelp and curse their luck ducking under tents and pulling in their goods beneath its shelter, but they soon brace themselves against the rain as a boom of thunder crackles all too close to them. They head for the stoa, sandals slipping across the worn cobblestones as they dash between the stalls, hair growing stringy and tunics damp. Xiaojun does the same, hands clumsy and wet as they fumble with the fish. 

Baskets in hand, he lags behind the crowd, chest pounding with every step he takes. The sky above is turbulent and furious, the lightning a brutal huntress as she tames the snarling lion. With every clap of bolt comes the roar, every snap a bellowing. It’s a competition of nature’s forces for the greater glory of the two, a struggle to see who’s mightiest in front of the trembling audience below. They battle, they fight, they dance—each strike greater than the last until the huntress lays a blow so barbarous that it slams into the ground with a quake, embers flying off the cobblestones.

With a cry, Xiaojun falls to the ground and scrambles to gather his precious eel. He’s only shoved the slithery creature back into the basket when he notices a man on the ground right where the lightning struck. For a moment, he can scarce believe his eyes at the heaped figure and nearly drops his fish once more. _He wasn’t there before, was he?_ He stares at him. All at once, the huntress and lion cease their bloodshed chastised and silenced by the command of the sun. Xiaojun blinks up at the clearing sky before looking back down at the man, deaf to the frantic mutterings around him.

_Is he alive?_ He grips the baskets debating if he should approach the strange man. He lays on the ground unmoving still but Xiaojun can’t tell if he’s hurt or not; he’s too far to see him clearly and the abruptness of it all has him stopped in his tracks looking towards the crowd for some sort of assistance, but not a single person steps out from the safety of the stoa.

“He needs help,” he tells them, but they only exchange glances each person expecting the other to be the one who volunteers. Xiaojun waits a moment, an indignance taking over his hesitance as each pair of eyes slowly turns their way back towards him, expectant. _Of course,_ he gazes back at the stares. Of course they expect him to do something. _But what should I do?_ The man had been struck by _lightning_ of all things—clearly a sign of the wrath of gods. If he helped the man, surely he too would be victim. But there’s the cheerful chirping of the birds and the sun warm against his skin proving his worries a folly.

_‘Had the storm come and gone with the man?’_ he overhears the whispering of the crowd. Had it? He’s certain that the man hadn’t been there before the lightning struck but maybe he just didn’t notice him. The storm had stirred an awed terror in him and he was hardly looking at where he was going. And yet, yet- 

Xiaojun shakes his head and digs his nails into his palms willing himself to walk on as he glances back at the people once more. Their faces are an indistinct mass staring and gaping at him simply waiting for _something_ to happen, but that simply serves to deepen his scorn. He knows their fear and hesitance. He feels it deep down inside of him too—an apprehension so great that he’d rather join the rest of them in the stoa but he can’t. He can’t. The fury with their inaction is too great for that. _Useless, the lot of them_ , Xiaojun glares. With that, he swallows down the last of his timid unease and sets aside his baskets before kneeling down beside the man. 

“Hey,” he quietly says, so quiet that he doesn’t hear himself over the roaring in his ears. For a long moment, nothing happens. The world is as still as it can be—the people mute and clinging onto one another, the birds and insects silenced, the ocean’s soft murmur nonexistent. Even the sun, so great and mighty when it cleared the vicious storm now hangs frozen in the sky, its eternal flame as tame as an innocent lamb. Yet the man stirs not. He lays asleep, his chest quietly rising and falling.

Xiaojun lays a hand on the stranger’s shoulder shivering at the touch despite the warmth against his palm. “Hey,” he murmurs, even softer than before. Nothing. He checks that the man is still breathing, that he’s even alive to begin with. “Hey,” he shakes him once more, a name suddenly entering his mind. “Kun,” the syllable rolls off his tongue. “Kun, Wake up.”

Just like that, the earth shudders a sigh and the man turns to face him, eyes meeting his. ‘ _Dejun’_ , a low voice rumbles and suddenly he’s rooted in place, his body no longer his own to command as he’s forced to behold the man before him. The stranger is beautiful, a sight more pleasing than anything Xiaojun’s seen. His skin is blinding and radiant, inky black hair an ethereal halo against the pearlescent gleam. His jaw, something that even the most talented of sculptors would be jealous of with its masculine cut and rounded grace. Those lips of his full and luscious, ripe like the spring harvest of strawberries. His nose, round and sweet like the nectar of the charming heliotropes around the acropolis. 

But none of that, none of that beauty is what enamors him so. It’s those eyes, a deep midnight bronze that draws and pulls him in, has his breath catching in his chest as it turns his blood into ice and sets his skin aflame. He wants to shrink away and grovel on his knees, beg for forgiveness and any clemency he may grant. He wants to please and receive his blessing, to bask in his glory and favor. Xiaojun sinks back on his heels, his fists the only thing propping him upright. 

_Kun_ , the name resonates within him once more. _Halcyon_ . The man continues to gaze at Xiaojun, his stare steady and piercing as it sinks down within him uncovering all that Xiaojun wishes to hide, but the man doesn’t judge him. Kun isn’t like that. _Halcyon_ isn’t like that. Yet in front of the ever-discerning eye he’s as naked as a newborn babe stripped bare of everything he is and knows. He’s vulnerable and defenseless with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide forced to sit shivering and helpless as the man continues to look at him. Still, the Placid is as benevolent as ever cradling him close in its merciful warmth soothing his worries away with a divine touch of lips upon his brow. All at once, the silence falls away and Xiaojun becomes aware of all the eyes on them, but it’s not those prodding eyes that bother him most—it’s the whispering.

_‘God,’_ they uneasily murmur amongst themselves, ‘ _Halcyon. Punishment. Deceit.’_ Each mumbling flows like the air he breathes, instinctive and unstoppable as they fill his mind with their nonsense before falling away uncomprehended. _What was that?_ He touches his forehead and shivers, looking down at the man still on the cobblestone before glancing up at the crowd. They continue to stare and cling, their eyes glossy and glazed. It’s not he and the man they see, but fear. Fear and uncertainty. 

But why? It’s a foolish question now, but he couldn’t understand it back then. Why had they looked on with such fretfulness? Why did they not rush to the man’s side, eager to tend to his wounds and assist him in any way possible? Why did they not fall on their knees bowing and kissing the ground he walked? Did they not feel the churning in their hearts? Did they not feel that tug, that pull of awe? Or had he imagined it all? Was it he who was struck by lightning and not the man? 

Yet one look at the man and his slow long blinks and Xiaojun knew he wasn’t the one who was struck. Perhaps they had simply known better than he did. Perhaps it was instinct and self-preservation that kept them away much like how those clever slippery eels never fell for spears and traps. Just he. He was the unlucky eel that had fallen for the bait.

Xiaojun looks at the people once more, but their fear begins to subside into disinterest and boredom. The man is alive and uninjured and there’s someone else caring for him. There’s nothing to see and nothing to do, so they begin to trickle out the stoa back into the marketplace picking up fallen items and forgotten goods. None of the Astretans pay them any heed as they step around them, sometimes offering a false sympathetic word at the man’s unfortunate plight only so that they may have a tale to tell. Soon, the agora is crowded once more with fresh faces escaping the heat and filling in the gaps that had been left behind.

“How much for the eel?” a statesman questions, his fine silken violet tunic an expression of both his wealth and status. Xiaojun stares at the basket then back up at the statesman, skin prickling from the careful curiosity from behind.

“It’s not for sale,” he tells him. “Not anymore.” And that was that. 

That day in the agora—the scorching walk up Mount Stagara and the quiet one back down to his home afterwards—they’re memories that he can still remember now with vivid clarity. How the crow stared at him, it’s beady eyes and greedy hunger a warning of what was to come. How the eel felt in his hands, slender and slippery as he picked it up in the battering rain. How his chest stirred at those inky bronze eyes. Even now, the very thought of their meeting has him wanting to turn back time to see that beautiful face once more. To have never gone to the agora in the first place. To have never fed the crow that cursed bread. But they met. They had met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tidbit: in augury, a bird flying to the left is a bad omen while a bird flying to the right is a good omen. Watch the skies, you never know what the birds may be telling you!
> 
> Come say hi!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kunstaeilation)   
>  [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/kunstaeilation)
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